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Posted on: Monday

My dear Lucien,

A couple of days ago you turned seven months old, and I didn't even realize the occasion until the day was nearly through. Such is the fullness of our collective lives these days, with you and I and your sister and your papa and your dog in our busy, busy home, barely realizing the passing of time. I warmed almond milk on the stove for your sister at the end of our long, laughter-filled evening, you sat on my hip observing my every move and lightly fiddling with my hair, and as I turned off the fire, I realized the date. Seven months had passed since we first met face-to-face on that powerful early monday morning.

When I look in your eyes (and I look into your bright blue eyes often) I see a full fledged boy. I see a maturity, coupled with a lust for life, which exceeds your years. You seem to have always had this quality, since you were in my belly actually, or at least it has always felt that way. Your face holds a rather charming combination of equal parts wisdom and cheer. When we ride the subway together, and you're wrapped close to my chest in your sling or carrier, you reach your little hand out in front of us to hold the bar, just like everyone else. Then you peer out into the crowd with your knowing eyes, searching for friends. As you catch the gaze of a fellow passenger, your sparkling grin emerges, your entire being radiates joy, and whomever you are looking at melts. You've enchanted entire subway cars with those eyes and that grin. I don't know many people who can enchant entire subway cars without saying a word.

From the moment you rise in the morning until the moment you drift to sleep, you are simply so driven. You are driven to explore, driven to learn, to move, and to see. You're the kind of guy who wants to open every door, hear the whole anthology, and try one of everything on the menu. You want to go everywhere. You want to see it all. It is entirely exhausting, and rather endearing. I am so proud of your drive.

And then there's food. You like food. You have strong little muscle man arms, and chubby yet lanky legs, and more facial expressions than a seasoned actor, but you have yet to grow any teeth. This does not stop you from eating. The sight and smell of food makes you so excited. When you smell a pot of soup cooking on the stove, and see me tasting it with the wooden spoon, you begin to chant and wail in a stylized, almost frantic way, flail your arms and legs in unison, and lunge your entire body towards the pot. When we hand you a piece of food, your face becomes a beacon of determination and your eyes light up like Christmas morning. Whether its an apple, a piece of toast, or a strip of steak, you figure out how to eat it, and then you ask for more. I used to mash everything for you and feed you with a spoon, but as your desire to eat became apparent, and you proved your adeptness at not choking, I began to simply hand you whatever I was eating. To my surprise, you rose to the occasion and quickly learned how to feed yourself. I'm hoping I have a little foodie on my hands... or perhaps even a chef.

Your love for those around you, especially your sister, is palpable. I never imagined I could feel so much love from a person so small. It defies explanation. When I hold you sometimes, its almost as if our bodies meld together into one. We breathe and move in unison, and I can feel your affection and sense your love. When I sing you to sleep at the end of the day with an old Velvet Underground song, the sound of my voice calms you. When I run my fingers through your funny little mop top of ginger curls, the weight of my touch comforts you. When I come home after being away and you see me for the first time in hours, the sight of my face brings you joy. Our connection feels so primal, so perfect. I think its safe to say that we are terribly in love with one another.

I thank you, Lucien Hunter, for teaching me, in these past seven months, the magic and the toil and the honor that it is to mother a son.